Mom doesn’t say anything. She sits there, looking hurt, like I did something awful to her, when it’s really the other way around.
“Okay, let’s take a step back,” Dr. Gold says. “Clea, I’d like you to explain what you heard and how it made you feel. And Mom and Dad, I’d like you to listen without responding until Clea is finished, even if what she shares is different from what you said or intended to say. You’ll have a chance to respond after. Does that work?”
“Yes,” I say. I don’t look over at Mom and Dad, but I can see them nodding out of the corner of my eye. “Okay, so basically it was like (A) If I had enough time for my homework, I’d be doing fine in school. But I don’t, because of chess. All my problems are because of chess. Blame chess. (B) There’s no chance I’m ever going pro, because I’m bad at chess—”
“I never said you were bad at chess,” Mom says.
I roll my eyes, because she didn’t have to say it. It was implied.
“Let’s give Clea a chance to finish,” Dr. Gold jumps in to stop Mom, and then she looks back at me, like she wants me to know it’s still my turn. It feels good to have her take my side over Mom’s, because she’s an adult and a doctor and super important. It makes me feel like I’m important, too.
“(C) If I do exactly what they want and I stop chess, everything will be totally fixed.” I take a deep breath. “As for how it made me feel—well, right now I feel like I’m so stupid and like there’s something really wrong with me, because I had all day yesterday to finish my homework, and I didn’t have that much or anything big and I really tried. And I’m pretty sure I suck at chess. I mean, after all this time, I finally got picked to play in a tournament, and then I messed up by being an idiot and thinking about Red and all the noises instead of focusing and winning my games. So you’re right about everything. I hope you’re happy.”
“That definitely doesn’t make me happy,” Mom says.
“Yeah, right. Just admit you hate chess and you can’t wait to take it away from me.”
She sighs. “I can’t understand how sometimes you can be so capable and focused, and other times you’re exactly the opposite. I’m sorry, but it’s very hard for me to believe that you’re not deciding when you feel like concentrating and when you don’t. And if that can be fixed, I would be thrilled.”
“You’re not sorry,” I say. “Don’t lie. You think I’m not trying hard enough and that I’m the problem. And guess what? Surprise! I think that, too.”
Mom doesn’t say anything.
Dr. Gold looks right at me and nods a lot, like she wants me to know that she’s heard everything and she’s sorry. “The fact that ADHD manifests in extremes can make it very frustrating and difficult for everyone, even the person with ADHD, to understand and accept reality.” Dr. Gold looks at Mom and then at me. “ADHD doesn’t mean you can’t focus. It means you have a hard time shifting, maintaining, and controlling attention and emotion, because the part of your brain that handles self-regulation is wired differently. Sometimes your gears get stuck and you can’t stop thinking about one thing and other times the gears are out of control, switching so quickly you can’t pause and do just one thing.”
“Is that why I couldn’t stop worrying about Red when I was supposed to be playing chess? Or hearing the person next to me chewing gum?” I ask.
She nods. “Can you remember an experience when the gears were constantly shifting?”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “That’s basically my entire life in a nutshell. I mean, my life when the gears aren’t stuck.”
Dr. Gold grins, and then she glances over at Mom and Dad. “I want to make sure you understand what Clea is experiencing.”
“I understand in theory,” Dad says.
“Me too,” Mom says.
“That’s a good place to start. Because we can’t see Clea’s ADHD, it’s easy to think that it’s not a big deal. It’s not really happening. Or what I’ve heard from all of you a lot—Clea needs to try harder, because she’s capable. The problem with that thought pattern is when she isn’t able to switch gears or stop the gears from switching on her, she starts to feel like there’s something wrong with her, when in reality, Clea is a very intelligent, thoughtful, hardworking student, daughter, friend, and sister who happens to have ADHD.” Dr. Gold looks at me. “It’s part of who you are. There are challenges, but there are a lot of benefits.”
“Uh, I don’t see anything good,” I say back.
“You will,” Dr. Gold says.
I want to believe her, because I think she’s smart and usually right, but I don’t.
“It’s hard not to get frustrated,” Mom says. “All we want is for Clea to be that capable, driven person we know is in there all the time.”
“I think it’s important in those moments where you are feeling frustrated, to stop and think about how hard it must be for Clea. Even though you can’t see Clea’s ADHD, try to remember that it’s there, recognize the symptoms when they show up, and have compassion for her,” Dr. Gold says. “I know it’s hard to understand, because sometimes Clea is able to do everyday things easily and other times it feels like she’s not able to do the exact same thing.”
Mom nods, like she wants Dr. Gold to know that’s true.
“But it would be very helpful to Clea if she felt like you trusted that she’s trying her best and if you assumed that she’s already being hard on herself. She doesn’t need help feeling bad, but she does need praise when she tries something that’s challenging for her and when she does well.”
“That would really help,” I say, because I know Dr. Gold is right. “Like today, basically the last thing on earth I want to do is go to chess practice, because I messed everything up for the whole team. I lost three games in a row. And instead of being all negative about chess, like always, it would be better if you could be proud of me for not quitting and going back even though I’m embarrassed.”
“We are so proud of you,” Mom says. “Really. We are.”
Dad nods. “That takes guts.”
“It’s not like I have a choice. Chess is the only thing I can be good at, even if you don’t think I can be.” I look at Mom. “I’m not going to throw all my hard work away because I had one bad tournament. That doesn’t seem very smart.”
“A lot of people would,” Mom says. “It’s much easier to quit when things get hard than to try again.”
“Maybe,” I say, because I think she could be right about that.
“Remember how you said that you couldn’t think of anything good about having ADHD?” Dr. Gold asks me. “Persistence is one of those great qualities. You’ve had to be determined, because you’ve faced challenges you didn’t even realize were in front of you. You’ve fallen down and had to pick yourself back up a lot. And even though that maybe doesn’t seem like a good thing, the more often you fall down, the easier it gets to take the next risk. You know that falling hurts, but also that it’s not the end of the world, because you have experience. That’s a big advantage.”
“But isn’t it better just to never fall down at all?” I ask.
“The problem with never failing is that your brain changes and grows in response to challenge, so if everything is easy and you never face anything difficult, you don’t have the chance to get stronger or better.”
“And that’s not good, because then you stay the same?” I ask.
Dr. Gold nods. “Exactly.”
“Can you explain how Clea can be good at chess and bad at math?” Mom asks.
“I’m not convinced she’s ‘bad’ at math.” Dr. Gold uses her fingers as quotation marks when she says the word bad. “And I’d encourage you to try to eliminate words like ‘bad’ and ‘stupid’—fixed descriptors—from the conversation, because they don’t reflect reality. Clea’s brain, and frankly all of our brains, are still developing and changing, so they aren’t one way. When it comes to math, I think following instructions is difficult for Clea, and there are a lot of directions in math homew
ork and tests.”
“Oh,” Mom says. It seems like she’s trying to let the information sink in.
Dr. Gold looks at me. “One reason you’re such a great chess player is that your mind is used to overcoming obstacles and thinking differently and creatively to help you succeed, which is why parts of the game are so natural for you. You’ve had a lifetime of practice.”
“Wait—I’m good at chess because I have ADHD?” I say.
Dr. Gold nods.
“That’s so cool,” I tell her.
“I think so, too.” She smiles back. “Now, one of the things we talked about last time was medication. Are you still interested in exploring that option?” Dr. Gold asks, looking first at Mom and Dad. They both nod. Then she looks at me. “How do you feel, Clea?”
“I don’t want to take medicine.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me feel like something is really wrong with me,” I say. “And like I have this big problem, and I’m too weak to handle it on my own.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing—handling everything by yourself, and considering that you’ve had no help or information, you’ve been doing an excellent job. I think you need to give yourself credit for that. I understand why it might feel like you’re weak if you admit that you need help with your ADHD, and also I understand that taking a pill to help you might make it feel bigger than you want it to be. But I think it’s exactly the opposite. It’s very hard for all of us to face up to our challenges—and, trust me, we all have them—but choosing to do that makes you strong and it will make your ADHD smaller and less important, because even though it will still be there, you won’t be constantly coming up against it.”
“If I try taking medicine and I don’t like how it feels, do I have to keep taking it?” I ask.
“You can stop immediately,” she says. “If that happens, your parents will give me a call right away, and we’ll meet and talk about what happened. And if you try the medicine, and you’re experiencing positive changes, I’d still want to meet with you after two weeks to check in and see how everything is going.”
“Then I’d feel okay about trying medicine to see if it works,” I say. “I mean, right now, I’d probably try anything, because I think I really need help.”
* * *
When I get to school, math is basically over, so I go to the bathroom for a few minutes and reapply my tinted lip gloss while I wait for the bell to ring. I have study hall next, aka my first meeting with Ms. Curtis. And even though I’m excited to finally have a plan, I’m afraid she won’t be able help me and I’m so far behind that there’s nothing anyone can do to make school okay.
The bell rings, and I walk down the hallway toward Ms. Curtis’s office. Classroom doors swing open and seventh graders start flooding into the hall. I don’t want to see anyone from the team, because I’m pretty sure after what happened at the tournament everyone is talking about how bad I am at chess, and I don’t need to feel any worse than I already do about how I played.
“Clea.” I recognize Red’s voice before I look up and see him standing by the lockers, smiling at me. “Where’s your shirt?”
That’s when I realize he’s wearing his chess team jersey, which means I’m supposed to be wearing mine, too—because today is the raffle. “I forgot.”
“Everyone’s going to think you quit the team,” he says.
“But I didn’t.”
“That doesn’t matter.” He drops his backpack, pulls his chess team jersey over his head, and adjusts the navy-blue T-shirt he has on underneath. “Wear mine. I’ll say I forgot.” He hands me his shirt like he doesn’t care that I flopped in the tournament and humiliated myself in front of everyone. He still wants to be on a team with me. “I’ll see you at lunch. We signed up for twelve fifteen.”
“I remember that part.”
“Cool,” he says and walks away, down the hall toward his next class.
I put my bag on the floor, pull Red’s shirt over my head, and slip my arms through the sleeves, just in case I walk by anyone from the team between now and lunch.
When I get to Ms. Curtis’s office, she’s standing by the door, scanning her big bookshelf, and holding a stack of papers.
“Clea, welcome.” Ms. Curtis has the kind of soothing voice that makes me think she’s probably good at singing Disney songs. “Make yourself comfortable.” She points to the round table and chairs in the back of the room and puts down the papers in her hand.
I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t feel like I’m in school anymore. I’ve been transported someplace else where the walls aren’t white and regular. They’re pale blue, like the sky on a warm summer morning, and the floor is almost entirely covered up by a rug the color of wheat. There are cloth bins stacked in perfect rows. Everything is so organized that the room feels empty and clean and brand-new. Ms. Curtis doesn’t have sticky notes or a mug that says World’s Best Teacher stuffed with mismatched pencils on her desk. There are two identical notebooks and one blue pen, which she brings with her when she sits down next to me.
Something about Ms. Curtis reminds me of Samantha from Bewitched. I guess maybe I hope she’s a little like her, too, and that she has magic powers to make things better for me, because that’s all I want. I’m tired of everything being hard.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She tucks her caramel-colored hair behind her ears and then ties it back into a low ponytail. “I just spoke with your mom, and will be talking to Dr. Gold again later today, to make sure we’re all on the same page. I think having an education plan is going to help you a lot.”
I want to tell Ms. Curtis that I love her office and I wish every room I ever walked into made me feel this way—calm and under control, and like I’m going to be okay. Except nothing has happened yet, and I’m too afraid to jinx it, so I smile and say, “I hope so.”
“Part of this process is giving you new tools and strategies to make school more manageable.” She places a notebook in front of me. “This is your new weekly planner. I’ve included your schedule for the rest of the semester, and there are color-coded spaces next to each class where you can write down your assignments—yellow for homework, blue for papers, and green for tests. We’ll transfer everything from your old planner while you’re here today to make sure nothing gets lost in the transition.” There are typed-up reminders on each page. I’m afraid to even touch the notebook, because I’m sure as soon as I do I’ll mess it up. “Also, you are allowed to have extended time for quizzes, tests, and in-class assignments. I’ve let your teachers know about the new accommodation. But you’ll need to be the one to ask for the extra time.”
“Okay,” I say. “Are you going to be able to fix me?”
“I know school has been hard for you lately,” she says.
“I want to stop messing up.”
“Can you give me an example of one thing you feel you’ve messed up?” It surprises me that she doesn’t tell me it’s okay or I’m not as bad as I think. It feels like she’s taking me seriously.
“I forgot that the chess team raffle was today at lunch, and I didn’t wear my shirt. This is Red’s,” I say. “And that’s when I was planning to do my history and science homework, because I didn’t have enough time this weekend to finish.”
“It sounds like dominoes,” she says. “One piece falls, and everything else comes crashing down.”
I nod.
“The reason you forget about things is that ADHD impacts your working memory. In your planner, there is a blank section. I want you to keep a list every week of anything you hear someone say that you need to remember to do. Get used to scribbling it down so you have a visual reminder.”
“Like in chess, how we have to keep a record of every move we make.”
“Exactly. All that practice will help you,” she says. “I’m going to ask you to implement four strategies tonight when you get home from school.” She points to a typed page that she’s stapled into my planner. “First, I’d l
ike you to start your homework with a subject you love or an assignment where you feel like you can succeed.”
“Why is that better?” I ask.
“If you start with something challenging and you don’t make a lot of progress, you’re not going to want to do the rest of your homework.”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Duh.”
“I want you to work in thirty-minute increments and set alarms for yourself, so you remember to stop. This will keep you from getting distracted for too long and help you switch gears when you need to move to the next thing.”
“I can do that,” I say, because I know exactly what she means.
“While you’re working, if you have a phone, I want you to put it on do not disturb to eliminate unnecessary distractions. And finally, I’d like you to use this.” She stands up and walks over to her desk. Then she opens one of the drawers, takes out a small balloon, and gives it to me. It’s filled with sand. I move it around in my hand. “Fidgeting actually stimulates your brain, so playing with the balloon will help you stay focused. You can use it while you’re doing homework and during class to help you concentrate. What do you think?”
“I’m not trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem like any of these things are going to help that much.”
“They will,” she promises.
* * *
When the bell rings for lunch, all I want to do is hide out in the library, where it’s safe and I don’t have to think about how badly I messed up in the tournament. I’d rather avoid the cafeteria and the chess team until everyone has a chance to forget that I’m the reason we lost … but I can’t let anyone think I quit.
There’s a big crowd around the entrance to the cafeteria, where a folding table is set up for the raffle. The prizes are all on display, and there’s a white foam board with green letters and gold sparkles that says:
2, 4, 6, 8, FIRST IT’S CHECK, AND THEN IT’S MATE.
ENTER THE CHESS TEAM RAFFLE NOW. YOU MIGHT WIN BIG!
BEST PRIZES EVER, EVER, EVER!!!
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